Whatever Happened
by daphnap
Summary: Set ten years in the future, Tim Drake (Robin), Cassie Sandsmark (Wondergirl), and Kon-El (Superboy) become embroiled in Tim's personal hell.
1. Too Long and Too Late

The lights flash in my eyes

Title: Whatever Happened: Too Long and Too Late

Spoilers: None

Rating: R for naughty language

Summary: Set ten years in the future, Tim Drake(Robin), Cassandra Sandsmark (Wondergirl) and Kon-El (Superboy), have grown up and moved on.

When theymeet again, they become embroiled in Tim's personal hell.

Author's notes: This came to me in the middle of Facades, and when a writer's bloc set itself so firmly in Facades, I had this to get me moving. Updates to Facades should be up within the week…hopefully ::crosses fingers::

Here we go…

***

The lights flash in my eyes.

The quick strobe matching the beat of the music is slowly giving me a headache. I never liked these things. The music pounds in a rhythm closely matching a beating heart, and over a hundred people bump and grind on a cramped dance floor.

This is Twist, one of the biggest dance clubs in Metropolis. It's filled to the brink with people hopped up on drugs, dizzy from alcohol, and giddy from the hormones that linger in the air. It reeks of cigarette smoke and alcohol and my headache, already bad from the music and lights, reaches the pounding of a jackhammer from the smell. I don't know why I came here. New York was stifling as ever; I had to get out of the apartment. 

I push through a clump of people, pounding their hips against each other, waving their arms akimbo as they desperately try to keep up to the music and each other.

I can spot the bar.

It's one of many, situated like tiny islands on the outskirts of the dance floor. This one is towards the back, hard to get to unless you are one of the twisting throng of people.

I can spot blonde hair from back here. It seems to take on the colors of the flashing lights, alternating between green, red, blue and yellow, a consistent pattern that make my eyes hurt. For a moment I freeze; hypnotic lights keeping me in place

She has her head against the counter, and her bleary eyes watch as the bartender pours her another drink, a golden liquor that travels slowly, like molasses, from the bottle. Rum.

Pushing my way between coupled dancers and swinging arms, I slip into the chair beside her. Her eyes move over me quickly, dismissing me even quicker. She doesn't recognize me. She just grabs her drink, and lets her head lie facing the other direction, picking it up only to drink from the cup.

Oh my god…that's…that's…

"Cassie." I shout over the music, my voice hoarse.

She ignores me.

"Cass!" I call out even louder. She is still, the only movement coming from the lifting of the cup and from swallowing.

"Wondy." I say this quietly, and she twists towards me, eyes dilated, hair askew. 

"Who the fuck are you and how the fuck do you know that?" 

Her words slur and her hands shake. Too much alcohol.

"Cass, it's me, Tim."

She looks taken aback for a moment, and then she squints, and leans closer. I can smell alcohol on her breath. Her eyes widen even more, and the angry look softens.

"Tim?"

I nod.

"Hey Cass."

She blinks, sets down her drink, and turns her whole body on the stool until she's facing me. She's wearing a tight purple, v-neck shirt, with some blue jeans that could be even tighter. She looks great, but her face looks like hell.

Her cheeks are flushed a bright pink, and her pale skin dotted with sweat. Her blonde hair is limp and hangs loosely against her shoulders.

"How the fuck did you pick up that English accent?"

"How the fuck, as you put it, did you become such a potty mouth?"

She laughs, a drunken laugh, as she gulps down another drink, "When the prick broke my heart." She threw back the drink, gulping down the rest of the glass in one swallow, letting the glass cup slam against the counter. The bar-tender raised his eyebrow, and began to poor another drink.

I reached out, stopping him, shaking my head. He got the message, and put the bottle back under the counter.

She looked at me disapprovingly, "I'm drowning my sorrows. You're interfering with the process."

I shook my head, "You've had too much."

She giggled again, and I reached out to steady her, "You always were the designated driver, Rob." She giggled some more, "When Kon or Cissie would bring alcohol, and get piss drunk, you would always hide the keys, wave some kryptonite, do anything to get us away from the car."

"As I recall, Cass, you never drank when they brought some."

"As you recall..." She giggled some more, then seemed to go serious, "I have reason."

"What reason can possibly be good enough to get this drunk?"

She looked at me, then motioned to the coaster from where her drink was standing. She lifted it up, pulling out two wrinkled and torn pieces. It was a picture, or used to be at least. She had torn it in half. One side was a smiling Kon, the other side was a smiling Cassie. 

"Broke up?"

She nodded. She had managed to grab some other guy's drink, and was gulping it down when I turned to her.

"Not good enough."

She raised her eyebrow as she downed the drink again, "Oh really," She slurred, she pointed to the other piece, "Look at that."

I stared at it, it was another picture. It was a black and white photo, grainy and bad. But the faces that it captured were telling enough.

"I caught them doing it." She giggled again, as if it was something funny.

She leant in closer, whispering in my ear, "Fucking!"

She let out a peal of laughter, and managed to get her drink filled by the bar-tender before I could stop him.

"The idiot forgot about the security camera we had installed in the living room."

I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. Everyone knew it was going on. Kon was a friend of mine, but he was a bastard when it came to relationships, and completely unresisting when it came to the opposite gender.

"I kicked him out."

Bound to happen, and Cassie was the one that got hurt.

She was downing another drink, and I grabbed the cup from her, "Cass, that's enough."

She shook her head, "It's never enough. It's enough when I can forget we ever got together, that's," She punctuated her last words by grabbing another guy's beer and taking a gulp, "That's when it's enough." She downed the thing, "And I haven't gotten there yet."

I sighed. I had to get her out of there, Grabbing her arm, I lifted her up from the stool, "Let's get you home Cass."

She resisted for a moment, then acquiesced. I held her up, and helped her stand. She was unsteady on her feet, and it took more then 15 minutes until we got to my car.

**

She lay stretched across the back seat when we got her apartment. She propped herself up and stared through blurry eyes at her apartment building. She shook her head, "I ain't going in. He's there. With her."

"You kicked him out, remember?"

She blinked, "Oh…" She fell back against the seat, "I don't want go there." She started crying. 

I sighed, pulling out from the parking lot and heading to the highway. When people get drunk they lose inhibitions, a lesser known fact was that they become emotional wastebaskets, crying being the manifestation there of.

Halfway to the apartment that I kept (Well Bruce, at least) in New York she had managed to fall asleep, cramped in my backseat. I managed to get her out of the car and into the elevator before she woke up.

I was holding her up, watching the numbers on the elevator tick up to 16 when she stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she stared at me through bloodshot eyes, "Where are we going?" She asked, her head buried in my chest.

"I'm taking you to my apartment." 

She started to push away, "Just because I'm drunk doesn't mean I'm easy."

"Cass…"

She sighed, snuggling even closer against my chest, "Jus' joking Rob."

She began to cry again, "I can't believe he did this to me again."

She whimpered, "He said it was the las' time. I believed him!" She laughed through her tears, "And I believed him! God how stupid am I?"

The elevator had reached my floor.

"What's wrong with me." She sniffed.

I fumbled for me keys, while I held her up. 

"What's wrong with me?"

**

I set her down on my bed, pulling off her shoes and socks, and pulling over the down comforter. As I lifted her head, and set a pillow beneath it, her eyes fluttered open.

She's confused.

She's calling me Kon, and muttering something under her breath.

I want to hear what it is, but it doesn't involve me, she's confused, so I pull away. She panics for a moment, then grabs my arm with a clammy hand.

"Kon!" She shouts out, her voice high pitched, "Kon." She's pulling me back towards her, "Don't leave me." Her voice becomes soft, childlike, "I love you." She's pulling me closer.

God. I don't need to hear this.

"Please." She whimpers, and I let myself fall back against the bed, pushing myself up so I can lean against the headboard. She scoots in closer to me, pressing against my chest, crying.

"I'm sorry Kon." She whispers, "I'm sorry for not being there. For not being good enough, for not doing what you needed." 

I lift my hand for a moment, then let it fall back down on her shoulders. She's crying again, her tears wetting my sweater. I rub small circles on her back, and slowly the crying dies down.

I wait a few moments, bated breath until I think she's asleep.

I'm pulling away when she grabs onto my arm. Before I can stop her, she's got me in a liplock, her tongue exploring my mouth. I push away, falling back on the floor, her hands releasing me.

I push my self up, she's staring at me, a hurt look on her face.

Did I hurt her?

I don't recall hitting her, and for a moment I retrace my fall from the bed.

"I'm sorry Kon."

And she falls back asleep.

I quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hands.

I shouldn't have fucking enjoyed it.

**

I hear someone in the bathroom. I sit up quickly, throwing the blanket to the floor and padding to the lit room quietly.

She's there, on her knees, bent over the toilet bowl. She's gripping the porcelain and leans in, throwing up. 

I kneel beside her, reaching with a hand, pulling back her hair, and holding it as she retches again. 

"Kon…"

She turns to me, her eyes focusing on mine, suddenly realizing I wasn't Kon. She glares at me angrily. 

"Who the fuck are you and what the *fuck* are you doing in my apartment?"

I gave a small smile, "This is my apartment."

Her face fell, and she looked worried.

"Oh…god…."

She looked around, "I came home with a random person?"

I shook my head.

"But I don't know you."

"You don't remember?"

She shook her head slowly.

"It's me, Tim."

She looked taken aback for a moment.

"And I'm in your apartment?"

I nodded.

"How did I get…" She trailed off.

She had to throw up again.

Wiping her mouth, she spoke, "Now I remember…"

She pushed herself up from the tile, and put out a hand to steady her. 

She pushed my hand away, "I, I have to go." Pushing past me, she retraced her steps back to the bedroom, finding her shoes and socks.

"Cass…"

I went after her. She was pulling up her stockings and stuffing her feet in her heels when she looked up at me.

"Why were you at the bar?"

I was silent.

She teetered on the edge of the bed for a moment, getting her bearings, then grabbing her bag. She pushed past me, roughly, stuffing her hair into a rubber band. Before I could react she had left the apartment, the door slamming shut behind her.

I raced after her, pushing through the closing elevator doors and grabbing her arm before she could disappear.

"Let go of me." Her voice was low, scratchy from the night before. She glared at me from hooded eyes and I couldn't, I wouldn't.

She placed her hand over mine, lightly at first.

"I'll talk to you later."

And my hand went limp.

**

I didn't know what to think when she called me up two weeks later. I don't know how she got my number, how she knew to reach me where I was, but that didn't matter.

She had called.

She wanted to meet at an outside cafe called The Citrus. Very upscale. If I would be anyone else, I would wonder why she could afford to meet in such a place. But I used to be Robin, I already knew why.

She was rich.

Filthy rich.

Not apparent with how she lived her life, but through some smart investments and quiet possibly some insider trading she amassed herself a fortune totaling a little less then a quarter of Bruce Wayne's wealth. That was saying a whole damn lot.

She pushed through the glass doors, all sleek and gray. She had on a gray skirt, reaching just below her knees, a slit traveling up to mid-thigh. She held a cell phone to one ear and Gucci glasses pulling back her hair. Walking on stiletto heels, I let my eyes dwell. Damn if I'm not a guy…

She was composed this time around. She looked professional, a busy CEO with a law degree from Harvard and a daily planner permanently attached to the hand.

She held her hand up, as if to momentarily silence me.

"No, damnit. Don't do that!" Setting down her purse, and slipping into her chair, she gave me a tight smile, then went back to her phone, "What? No! What did I just say? Don't sell. Don't do anything."

She had a look of a momentary confusion which spilt into anger as she shouted into the phone, "What did I just say??? Are you deaf or stupid???" She paused in her tirade, "Goddamnit! Wait. Ok? Can you understand that? Wait. Until. I. Get. There."

With that she pressed the off button on the cell phone and slammed it on the floor.

"Sorry." She smiled tightly, "Just…work." She seemed as if she needed to compose herself, so I remained quiet.

"Still haven't changed Tim." She grinned wryly, shaking her head. 

I felt an eyebrow raise on it's own accord.

"Excuse me?"

She laughed, this time a gentle tinkling, then her previously drunken giggles, "For as long as I've known you, you always waited for the other to speak first." She leaned in, "I always suspected it saved you the trouble of making the first move."

I laughed at that, but kept silent.

"There! You're doing it again!"

I just gave her a grin and shook my head. I motioned over a waitress. She came by, a perky smile to her lips, and a pad and pencil. 

"I'll have a gin and tonic." Cassie ordered.

It took all of my will- power not to react.

"I'll have just a cup of water, thank you." The waitress nodded, and left us.

She leaned in, "I know what you want to ask."

She leaned back against her chair, a finger tapping the table, the other playing with a strand of hair.

"Well?"

She just smiled a small smile, "When did I become an alcoholic?"

"April 28th, 2002, when you're mother died in a car accident, and you found your self in a bar…" I tapped my finger on the table, trying to job my memory, "On Metro and Third in Keystone City." I leaned in, "You ordered a gin and tonic, and the rest is history."

Her mouth dropped open.

"Son of a bitch…"

I wanted to grin.

The drink had arrived and she gulped it down, slamming it against the table.

"Son of a bitch!"

She shook her head as if trying to clear her mind, "I completely forgot how you can do that."

I gave a small smile.

Her eyes took a curious shade of blue as she leaned in again, moving her cup so she could get a better view of me.

"Now, let me ask a question-"

"Where did I get the English accent?"

She looked at me angrily, "Stop doing that!"

"Sorry."

She just shook her head.

"How did you know?"

"You asked me that two weeks ago."

"When I was drunk?"

I nodded.

She sighed.

"Look, Rob- Tim, I want to thank you for taking care of me then." She seemed nervous, as if she was angry at herself, "I was…I was angry and lost…"

I didn't say anything.

"So…the accent, do tell." She quickly changed the subject, uncomfortable with the Pandora's box she had just opened.

"After graduating I managed to get myself into Oxford."

She raised an eyebrow, "Why am I not surprised?" She motioned the waitress over again, this time ordering coffee under my glare.

"Stalin." She whispered under her breath, "So what did you major in?"

"Majored in forensic pathology, minored in psychological profiling."

"Oooh…..what, CIA, FBI, DEO?" She raised and eyebrow.

"FBI."

"Really…" She took a sip of her coffee, "Why am I not the least bit surprised?" 

"As Dick puts it: It gives me a reason to be dark and brooding."

She laughed at that, and I made a note to make her laugh more often…

"I rather like the accent." She grinned slyly, "Makes you sound sexy."

I was taken aback for a moment. This woman in front of me, the last time I saw her, awkward and unsure, sounded like a sexual…vixen…

It put me at unease. Those who use sex as a tool usually have no qualms about doing the same with lives…

"Sorry, um…" She looked uncomfortable again, and it was unsettling to see her as such, as it reminded me of old times….

"Slipping into CEO bitch persona." She laughed nervously, "I..um…" She gulped down some more coffee, and I noticed her hands were shaking. She clumsily reached for something in her purse, pulling out a case of cigarettes.

I reached out and covered her shaking hand with my own, "Come on Cass."

She looked up at me, her eyes unsure, "Let's get out of here, I want to talk to you about something."

I was right.

Something was wrong.

***

We paid the bill with no problem, and soon we were walking on the street. She had the cell phone to her ear, and she was shouting at whoever was on the other line.

"I don't care what's going on. I have something important to finish up here." Her face showed confusion, "What? No! Get back to work!" And she slammed the phone shut.

"Ok, where were we?" 

I just shrugged.

"Right." She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, walking steadily on her high heels, "I- I'm not going back to him."

I didn't say anything, just kept my hands in pockets, and continued to walk beside her.

"I don't know why I didn't do it the first time…" She sighed, turning towards me, "Yes I do." She stared at a couple walking by, "Because I love- _loved_- him."

I said nothing.

She kept walking, looking periodically at me, and at the cars passing by, "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Not talking."

"I just did."

"Bastard." She smiled, the skin around her eyes crinkling good-naturedly.

We walked in silence for a few minutes. 

She was moving closer each step we took. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was just…right, but soon she had her hand threaded through mine, her head resting on my shoulder. Something was wrong. 

I wasn't going to push her, I wasn't going to try and pull information from her. She wasn't a suspect, she wasn't a perp. She was a confused, emotionally battered friend, who's beautiful…where the fuck did that come from…face lay against my shoulder.

Best not mess with *that* boy!

God…what is wrong with me?

I want to move, get her off of me, but her smell, her…she's…god…

I keep walking, my hands in my pockets, her hands threaded through mine, her beautiful face on my shoulder.

**

We reached her apartment without incident. Along the way we talked about each other's lives. Cassie, Ms. CEO, was in the midst of closing a huge merger, and had been frantically struggling the whole week to get everything in order. This was the only free time she had taken in the past two weeks.

No, she hadn't spoken with Kon since the breakup, and no, she had no desire to do so.

So I sat on her couch, a cup of coffee warming my hands, steaming up my glasses. Cassie was changing out of her business suit. She laughed when she had said, "Into something more…comfortable."

She came back, shoulder length blonde hair tied in a bun at the base of her neck, makeup rubbed off, giving her skin a healthy glow. Her feet were clad in bunny slippers, and a thick terry cloth robe covered flannel pants and a tank top.

She sat cross-leg on the armchair, her fingers curling around a cup of hot cocoa. Her eyes were closed for a brief instant when she took in a whiff of the chocolate.

"Guilty pleasures."

I just took in a sip of coffee. Caffeine ran through my veins, I was awake now, more than ever. Night-time was falling, old habits died hard. Her windows kept out the light, but I knew it was dark outside. I could feel it.

Strange.

It seems so unnatural now.

When I was young, I would feel lost without it, without knowing what the time was, what it was like outside.

"Damnit, Tim, can you start at least one conversation? I'm running out of ideas here."

I smile at her, "About those Cubs-"

She threw up her hands in surrender, "Fine! You win!" with mock anger, she shouted, "Are you happy now? Huh? Are you happy?"

I took another swig of coffee.

She leaned in, and took another sip of her cocoa, "So how's the FBI? Catch any killers, "popped any caps" in someone's ass?"

I laughed shaking my head, "No, no caps for me. Desk work mostly. They give me files, fly me off somewhere, and hope to god the profile matches."

She cocked her head to the side, "You're not a field agent?"

I shook my head, "Nope…well, kinda sorta…"

"Kinda-Sorta? That's not FBI language."

"Work with me here."

"Is it hard…you know, doing what you do?"

I paused for a moment, I wasn't feeling comfortable, "It's hard as anything that I do…but I have to do it."

"Why do you do it?"

I shifted, the leather couch creaking with my movements, "I guess…" The conversation was getting to serious, "I guess the spandex just began to ride up."

She grinned sardonically, "Touchy subject?"

I nodded, taking a drink from my cup, "Touchy subject."

She shifted in her chair, "You're not helping with the conversation."

"I was never good at making one."

"What are you good at?"

"Being silent."

Her eyes narrowed, "Why is that? Why do you do that? Why can't you make simple conversation?"

"That's were you're getting it wrong."

"What am I getting wrong? That you can't talk with someone, that you are constantly on guard?" She seemed angry.

"I can't-"

"You can't what? Talk with people, with me? You can only talk with your friends? What does that make me?"

"Listen-"

"To what? You don't say anything. You sit there and you say nothing, you just look and you constantly judge, and you say nothing-" She was crying now, why was she crying?

I stood up from the couch, coming to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder, "Cassie, what's wrong?"

She pushed my hand from her shoulder, pulling quickly away, "I'm sick and tired of people like you. You hide your feelings, you lie about others." She wiped a hand across her eyes, red eyes glaring angrily at me.

"Fuck people like you." She threw her cup across the room, chocolate tendrils staining the wall, "Fuck you, bastards that fuck with hearts." She sniffed, face crumpling. "Why?"

She slid to the floor against the wall, blonde hair against a white wall. I sat besides her, my hand rubbing her back, pulling her close to me. She had curled up into a ball, arms wrapped around tucked legs, blonde tendrils covering her face. She leaned heavily against my shoulder, tears soaking the shirt underneath.

**

I put my hand on her back, rubbing lightly, "Cass? What's wrong?" I whispered, leaning my face in close with her down turned one. Her hand still lay against the floor, the palm of the other, pressed against her eyes as if to dam up the tears. 

There was a hitch in her voice when she spoke quietly:

"I'm sorry."

I shook my head, "Why?" I said, almost incredulously, "What have you done to be sorry?"

"I- just go." Her voice got quieter, if possible, and she shrugged off my hand. She pulled herself up from the floor, straightening her robe.

"But-"

She shook her head, "I can't handle this right now." She turned away, heading back into her room, "It's too much."

I followed her, I couldn't help it. I reached out with a hand and grabbed her wrist, pulling her gently back to me, "Talk to me." I said to her upturned face.

Red tear streaks stained her cheeks.

God, she misses him.

I can tell. The way her shoulders move, the way she avoids my eyes.

_Goddamnit, Drake, don't analyze your friend._

Everyone keeps testing her. Me without words, Kon with his cheating…

"I-" She shook her head, "No, go-" She stops.

We're close. Noses barely touch; her hair feathers my neck, her lips centimeters, millimeters ways from my own. I can feel her breath falls lightly across my neck.

I let go of her wrist, and it falls limply to her side.

I make my way through the living room, until I reach the door. The brass is cool under my fingers. I turn it softly. I can feel her gazing at me, her eyes traveling up my spine.

I'm spun around, Cassie has her body pressed against mine. Her lips travel up my neck, meeting with my own. She pulls my bottom lip into her mouth….and god…I'm in heaven.

I twist around, pressing her against the wall, my hands bracing her face as I kiss her harder. Her hands travel up my back, and back down…

Hands travel…. clothing moved, shuffled…unbuttoned….

Then she pulls away, hand over her mouth, pained expression on her face. She closes her eyes.

"Go, Tim….just go."

And I do.

The door shuts behind me.

**

_What happened back there?_

I touch my lips briefly, then vigorously rub my face with my hands. I have to get her off of me, her smell out of my hair, and my hands and…

Someone is picking me up. My body flies through the air, slamming into the wall.

Fuck…

Crackle of energy.

TTK.

Kon.

I can't move, because his arm pressing against my chest, the other lifting me up again…by my neck. The pressure he is putting against my sternum will cause it to crack in approximately 30 seconds, sending shards of bone to pierce various organs, including my lungs and heart.

29 seconds.

"You bastard!" He was screaming, shoving me against the wall again. Blood was welling up beneath the skin.

He slammed me against the wall again, "You fucking bastard!"

26 seconds.

I couldn't breath…fuck….I can't breath…

25 seconds.

"How could you?"

Slam.

23 seconds.

"How fucking could you?"

21 seconds.

"Go for the vulnerable girls Rob? Can't get anyone else?"

Slam.

19 seconds.

"It's been two weeks, you bastard, two weeks."

14 seconds.

13 seconds.

12 seconds.

"How-"

Slam.

"Could-"

Slam.

"You?"

Slam. 

The wall behind me begins to crack, blood dribbles down my shirt. He doesn't notice.

10 seconds.

Something was going to crack… I could feel my bone bending…

5 seconds.

"You bastard!"

My chest is…

"…collapsing."

His eyes opened wide for moment, as if he suddenly realized he was using his super strength.

He let go, and I fell to the ground, a limp rag doll.

He turned away, preparing to leave.

Through the cacophony of sound that was my breathing, and the dull thud of my heart beat, I could make out what he was saying:

"Don't hurt her."

Fuck him.

"Hurt her Kon?" I shout out after his retreating back, my hand rubbing my throat, "Like you did?"

I struggled to push myself off of the floor, unsteady hands holding up an equally unsteady body.

But I shout at him anyway, "Fuck you Kon!" It hurts to speak.

There are stabbing pains in my chest, it's as if fireworks are exploding within my ribcage, and the embers are still smoldering.

He pauses a moment, as if deciding whether to pummel me or scurry away.

Scurry you bastard.

I could take him. Even in this state. I know his weaknesses; I know his mistakes.

No you can't.

But I shout again anyway, "I'm not going to do what you did Kon!" I manage to pull myself up. There's blood on my fingers, and a red trail follows me ascent, "Because I'm not like you Kon. I don't fuck with people and try and see how far I can push before they break."

I walk past him now, limping painfully. He can't look me in the eye; he can't say anything, "I don't pretend to love people."

I shove him against the wall.

"I'm not going to hurt her like you did."

And I leave.

I hear a soft thump. It's his body sliding against the side of the wall, as he slowly sits down, legs pulled up, and his head in his hands. His shoulders shake.

The elevator opens and I limp painfully on. As the doors close Kon wipes his face.

I was wrong about one thing though.

He loved her.

The bastard still does.

**


	2. It’s Never Too Late

**

Title: Whatever Happened: It's Never Too Late

Spoilers: None

Rating: R for naughty language

Summary: Set ten years in the future, Tim Drake(Robin), Cassandra Sandsmark (Wondergirl) and Kon-El (Superboy), have grown up and moved on.

When they meet again, they become embroiled in Tim's personal hell.

Author's notes: This came to me in the middle of Facades, and when a writer's bloc set itself so firmly in Facades, I had this to get me moving. Updates to Facades should be up within the week…hopefully ::crosses fingers::

**

The phone is ringing when I get home. I shuck my coat to the floor, and let myself fall on the couch. The leather creaks under my back. I'm sore, I'm tired, I'm an emotional fuckwit as a friend in the UK so eloquently put the compost pile my emotions were becoming. 

I'm not going to pick the damn thing up.

I refuse to.

It keeps ringing.

Is my answering machine on? I look up, over the armrest of the couch. The red light blinks slowly in the dark.

It's on, _back to sleep._

The answering machine picks up. A short, monotone voice asks the caller to leave a message. 

"Agent Drake…" The man's voice is low, I recognize it almost instantly that its Anderson's. He takes a deep breath, and then lets it out, as if through puckered lips.

"…He's back."

The line clicks off.

No.

**

I was able to get to my car in less than two seconds, the New York branch of the FBI in less than five.

_No. This can't be happening, it can't, oh god, it can't…_

Anderson is waiting for me when I get there. He's my senior by at least 30 years. Salt and pepper hair frames a strong, creased face. He's sitting in my seat, his feet tucked under the desk, a file held tightly in his hands.

I close the door behind me; my hands are shaking as I stand there. I could barely drive over here, and now I can barely stand still.

"Please tell me this is a joke…" He shakes his head.

I want to scream, but whisper painfully instead, "Please tell me you're fucking joking."

He tosses me a file, and it skitters onto the desk.

I know this file. 

I know every fucking word in it.

I hated this file.

I hated everything in it, the pictures, the words, the paper it was all printed on.

It was a nightmare, one that I had thought I had gotten over.

I dream about the pictures still. I sit up in the middle of the night, and my throat is an open sore from screaming. Plaster litters the bed from the old woman upstairs banging the floor with her cane, trying to tell me to shut up.

I'm shaking my head, "Not the same guy. It can't be." Anderson just looks at me from under lowered lids.

My hand is shaking, the file trembles under my hands, "He's dead!" I'm shouting now, banging my fist against the wall besides the door, "I killed him!"

I lean my head against the wall, "I shot him twice….he's dead…" I'm whispering now, the words can barely leave my lips, "He has to be."

**

It was my first year in the FBI as an active agent. I had managed to write two correct profiles that led to the capture of both of the killers. Someone had seen something in me, and I found myself at VICAP in my 10th active month.

I was 23, the second youngest profiler to work in VICAP, second only to an Agent Mulder. I never met the guy, but I heard he was 22 when he found himself in VICAP.

It was my first real case. Second day on the job, and I already found myself deep in shit. A file landed on my desk, tossed there by Anderson. No one else would touch it, they turned green at the mention of it.

We called it the Torso file, simply, because we couldn't think of any other name that didn't make us throw up.

22 women. 4 others still in question.

Torsos only.

Bodies with arms and legs hacked off, only identified by the single finger found in a zip lock bag besides each body. At least that was what we thought. The killings had started 26 weeks ago, an average of one body per week, from the surrounding New York metropolitan area. 

Mulder wasn't available.

I was.

I took it, thinking I could do some good.

But what was supposed to take a few days spiraled into weeks. Four women died because I wasn't fast enough.

The tapes had begun to appear at my doorstep after the first week.

Screaming. Pleas. Crying, _oh god_, the crying. Others shouted obscenities, and the tapes, that held silence, rather than words where the worst.

A total of 25 would appear on my doorstop.

They would come almost everyday. I played them over and over and over again until I heard them in my dreams, when -if- I slept.

I wouldn't let anyone into my apartment because the floors and walls were covered in pictures no one should have had to seen. The fridge was empty because I couldn't eat, and if I did, I would throw it back up. I lost ten pounds over those weeks. Best diet plan available, should have been marketed by Jenny Craig.

I managed to get Babs to send me some painkillers. But after the second week she stopped sending them realizing that I might become addicted. It was already too late. I could still hack. They came to the doorstep along with the tapes.

Those weeks were hell.

The profile came around slowly. On top of the standard white male in his late thirties, early forties, we had nothing. All of his victims were different, other than that they were all female, and all between the ages of 14- 40. He was picky, but most serial killers were.

The type of victim he chose was telling: women, he was angry with his mother, and/or lustful for his sister, maybe both. He may have had a sexual disorder, but the presence of semen proved other wise. He definitely displayed psychosexual tendencies, which was leading us to think that he was either unattractive or in a bad marriage.

That was it. 

Nothing else.

Then four weeks into my stint as the profiler, on one of the bodies, forensic scientists discovered an oddly shaped welt on the upper left side of one of the victim's elbow. It formed part of the crest of Gotham University. College ring, it was determined.

They even found out the year of graduation.

Through this and other evidence the pools of suspects was lowered considerably, down to five.

It looked like we had broken the case. We had bugs installed, and guys around the clock checking their movements.

Emily Tourney disappeared from PS2, a high school in the New York suburbs, Monday morning.

None of the five suspects ever went near. The profile was thrown out the window. When I cam home Monday night, the tape was on the mat.

I had picked it up, looked around me, wondered how long it had sat there. 

Understanding dawned, right there on my doormat, dripping wet from New York rain.

He had known where I had lived.

Fuck.

I never bothered going inside my apartment that night. I spun on my heel and ran to the car. It took less then five minutes to get to the office, a ride that normally takes ten. I think I ran at least five stoplights that night. 

When I reached my office, I didn't bother putting the tape in the worn tape player. My computer, while senile and dusty, was always on. I typed in the information I had.

White.

Rich.

Gotham University, class of '74.

The list fell down to 20.

I dismissed those without broken homes and scratched those who weren't married.

The guy was married. I knew it; I felt it in my gut. 

The list dropped to 5.

I struck the ones that didn't have children.

I was down to two.

My eyes hurt, my head throbbed. Goddamnit, I had to make a fucking choice. Which one felt right? Which one could kill over 25 women?

Robert Bell:

Special agent in charge of the investigation into the deaths of 27 women.

Fuck.

I ran five flights of stairs, did a few Robin moves to cover the last three. I was knocking on Anderson's door ten minutes after my arrival to the office.

He opened the door, his face was haggard, but he was as put together as he always was. He motioned me to come in. I threw the print out on his desk.

We had a squad five minutes later.

We were at his house in three. 

There I stood, uncomfortable in the Kevlar that felt natural as a kid. It was tight between my shoulders, and too small, FBI competence.

I felt the 20 snipers we had situated around the place, their laser sights drilling a hole into my head.

I knocked.

It was a loud hollow sound that reverberated through the heavy oak door. The missus was in California for a wedding, the kids were tagging along with her.

I knocked again. Nothing. My shaky hand found the knob and I turned.

It was open.

My hand traveled against the wall, the other one holding the gun down to the floor. I felt the eyes of the smiling faces that lined the wall of the hallway. My breath came out in short gasps.

I didn't want to find out.

I didn't want to know how the nightmare would end.

I remember my feet echoing down the hall, how the light from the opened door to the basement glowed a dull yellow.

I had lived in this man's head for too long.

I didn't want to meet myself.

Someone screamed. Before I could move, before I could draw in another breath, the SWAT team was all around me. I pushed and shoved my way through them, reaching the bottom of the stairs. I was the first one in, and the first one out, throwing up outside, one hand against the house the other one shaking so badly I had to steady it against my thigh. The SWAT team was tearing up the house. I was throwing up outside of it, my chest heaving, and my forehead sweaty.

Robert Bell, special agent in charge of this operation, burst from the bushes. 

It took me a few moments to realize what was going on.

My feet began to move before I told them to. I ran after him, jumping up the side of the building, pulling an old Robin move or two as I leaped the rooftops. I jumped from an overhead of a small apartment and landed heavily against him, pushing the bastard against the gravel.

The bastard grinned, reminding me of the Joker, before he stabbed me in the gut with a knife.

Blood dribbled down my chin, dripping against his face, and I held him against the ground. It was all I could do: hold him down or die. He slammed a rock against the back of my head, and pushed me limply aside.

Title: Whatever Happened: Too Long and Too Late

Spoilers: None

Rating: R for naughty language

Summary: Set ten years in the future, Tim Drake(Robin), Cassandra Sandsmark (Wondergirl) and Kon-El (Superboy), have grown up and moved on.

When theymeet again, they become embroiled in Tim's personal hell.

Author's notes: This came to me in the middle of Facades, and when a writer's bloc set itself so firmly in Facades, I had this to get me moving. Updates to Facades should be up within the week…hopefully ::crosses fingers::

**

before

**

"I'm not going to hurt her like you did."

And I leave.

I hear a soft thump. It's his body sliding against the side of the wall, as he slowly sits down, legs pulled up, and his head in his hands. His shoulders shake.

The elevator opens and I limp painfully on. As the doors close Kon wipes his face.

I was wrong about one thing though.

He loved her.

The bastard still does.

**

now

**

I remember my face against the gravel, hot breath in the cold air, coming out in short gasps. The blood was pooling around my face, stinging hot against my skin. My fingers were numb, my legs dead weight. I couldn't let him get away.

I remember my fingers; slick from sweat and blood; fumbling with the gun I had sworn myself I never would use.

I wanted to kill him. I had lived in his head for too long. 

It was a joke. Bored to tears with his job, angry at his wife, sick with his kids, he needed excitement. Nothing interesting was coming in, same old Hannibal Lector wannabees and school shootings. So he decided to do something about it. He killed and killed, and killed. He was bored, and it was fun. It was fun to read his work in the newspaper, to have people fear him.

It was fun to fuck with people's minds, to be on both sides of the investigation. The deeper I had dug into his mind, the quicker I wanted to get out. I had become so engrossed with this guy that by the second week I had begun to rationalize his actions, to dilute his motives.

I had begun to understand him

And I wanted to kill myself.

He pushed a knife to my throat. Blood dribbled down my Adam's apple as he dug deeper, cutting through skin. 

Clammy fingers grasped the handle. Shaking hands brought it up. The knife pressing harder, began to drag across my throat.

Shaking hands pressed the muzzle to his stomach, shaking fingers pressed the trigger.

Again.

And again.

His eyes bulged; the knife became loose in his fingers, tumbling to the ground. He clutched his stomach, blood dribbling over, slick against my hands, mixing with my own. My hand fell down again, strength sapped.

When I woke up, Anderson was at my bedside. He nursed a cup of coffee while he stood there.

"You were malnourished." He told me.

My throat was parched, I felt tired, sick, dirty, dead.

"We couldn't find his body."

I wanted to scream, but all I could manage was to close my eyes, "I shot him twice."

Anderson nodded, "We found two pints of blood, he's dead, wherever he is."

I shook my head weakly.

Anderson sighed, patting my shoulder as he turned to leave, "No one survives that son."

I wanted to laugh if I didn't want to throw up more. _Yes they do, Anderson_, _nightmares don't die._

That was three years ago.

They get stronger until they come back… 

I had convinced my self that he was dead, he had to be, I had to believe that.

Until they come back and kill the ones you love.

**


	3. Shake and Bake

**

Title: Whatever Happened: Shake and Bake

Spoilers: None

Rating: R for naughty language

Summary: Set ten years in the future, Tim Drake(Robin), Cassandra Sandsmark (Wondergirl) and Kon-El (Superboy), have grown up and moved on.

When theymeet again, they become embroiled in Tim's personal hell.

Author's notes: This came to me in the middle of Facades, and when a writer's bloc set itself so firmly in Facades, I had this to get me moving. Updates to Facades should be up within the week…hopefully ::crosses fingers::

**

before

**

Anderson sighed, patting my shoulder as he turned to leave, "No one survives that son."

I wanted to laugh if I didn't want to throw up more. _Yes they do, Anderson_, _nightmares don't die._

That was three years ago.

They get stronger until they come back… 

I had convinced my self that he was dead, he had to be, I had to believe that.

Until they come back and kill the ones you love.

**

now

**

I drove home.  
  
When I found myself in front of the apartment building I didn't know how I got myself there. I didn't remember leaving the office, I didn't remember starting the car, and I defiantly didn't remember driving. It was as if I slept through everything. God knows how I got home safely.  
  
I probably should have stayed at the office, began the investigation before it was too late, but I couldn't stand being confined in that room, I couldn't imagine taking this case again, opening the file.  
  
I dropped the keys at least five times before I opened the door. My hands were shaking. They were shaking and I couldn't stop them.  
  
I had seen worse as Robin, I had seen dead bodies stuffed in trashcans, in shoeboxes, once, shipped in tiny matchboxes. I had seen decapitated heads, mutilated bodies. I had seen twisted necks and broken backs and never blinked. But I was detached; finding the killer only took a few punches and a good kick to the groin. It never involved becoming a killer yourself; it never involved living in the fucker's head for months.   
  
But I wasn't Robin anymore. I grew up, and out, of the costume, I began to understand the seriousness of death. That body in the trashcan wasn't a clue to catch the Joker, it was a mother of four who worked at McDonald's to send her kids to school. The broken neck in the alleyway on Fourth and Main wasn't the key to a puzzle, but a son of grieving parents, who wanted to be an actor.  
  
My apartment was dim. The computer, always on, blinked languidly in the dark, casting a blue glow around the desk it sat on. I dropped the file on the desk besides the computer, stretched a moment, and briefly considered killing myself.  
  
I wiped a hand across my face, throwing that thought away, and deactivated the screensaver. The monitor stared back at me. The little oracle icon on my start menu was blinking.   
  
Babs.  
  
I clicked on it twice, and her little program began to run.  
  
"Tim!" The Barbara smiled at me, "Your home!"  
  
I nodded, smiling faintly, "What's going on?"  
  
She shrugged her shoulders, "The usual, monitoring government activities, checking up on the latest crimes, helping out the JLA," She motioned with her hand towards the kitchen, "Making sure Grayson doesn't kill himself with the can opener.."  
  
"Babs!" Dick cried out from the kitchen, "Stop making fun-" He squeaked, "-OW!"  
  
Barbara just rolled her eyes, "I just wanted to remind your meeting with Bruce, next week." She began to brief me of what I needed to know.  
  
I nodded absentmindedly; I flipped through the file as she talked, pausing briefly at the picture of the first victim.  
  
Ashley Holden. Newly wed. She was smiling in this picture, a wide toothy smile and a child cradled in her arms.  
  
The next picture was the from the morgue. She wasn't smiling anymore, I imagined, but I couldn't tell for certain: her head was missing. Her naked torso on the cold metal slab of the Coroner's office, looked like plastic. Her skin was dull white, the blood settling in her back.   
  
"…Hold on Tim, my email is blinking…"  
  
The rest of the photos were most of the same. Smiling picture of the victim, cold picture of them dead. Included within the file where write-ups of the police and coroner reports, diagrams of where the bodies were found, and a general time line of abduction and discovery of the bodies, a map of where the bodies where found in relation to where they were last seen and where they lived, and a preliminary outline done by a guy fresh out of the academy.  
  
They had been sitting on this for three months before someone realized the connection.  
  
The log sheet told me it must have been Anderson.  
  
Damn.  
  
"...Oh god…"  
  
The profile was the usual, the kind I would have drummed up at first. White male, in his late thirties, early forties, businessman, maybe father.   
  
"…You can't go through this again…"  
  
Within the file was a brief write up of the case that I had been involved in. My profile was included, dog-eared and marked up, parts crossed out, comments written on the side. God, my head hurt…  
  
"…I won't allow you to take this case again Tim…"  
  
My temples throbbed, and I turned the page on a police report from the third body. Something caught my eye.  
  
"…killed you last time…"  
  
God, what was it, it was right there, something is wrong, something I'm missing…  
  
"…listen to me. Damnit, Tim…"  
  
…The tapes. Goddamnit, the tapes.  
  
"TIM!"  
  
I looked up, suddenly, "What, what is it?"  
  
She looked, "I can reassign you, I can hack into the FBI mainframe, you don't have to take this case again Tim."  
  
"How do you know about that?"  
  
She folds her arms and glares at me expectantly.  
  
"Oh…yeah…" I shrugged, getting up from the desk, "Look, I don't have time for this, I have work to do."  
  
"Damnit Tim, you can't-"  
  
"Don't tell me what to do Barbara. I'm not Robin anymore." My voice was cold.  
  
"I'm not going to watch you do this to yourself."  
  
"Then don't."  
  
I turned off the computer.  
  
Sitting on my couch, the file spread out in front of me, I puzzled over the fact that after three bodies, why the tapes weren't on my doorstep.  
  
It couldn't be him.  
  
It couldn't.  
  
I sighed, leaving the papers on the coffee table. It's late, I have to get some sleep; the clock read 2:30. I kicked off my shoes, and threw my jacket onto the chair in my bedroom. I needed a shower. God, I thought, wiping a hand over my jaw and looking in the mirror, I look like shit…  
  
The doorbell rang.  
  
**  
  
I grabbed my gun from the hall table, and slowly moved towards the door.  
  
It rang again.  
  
My hands weren't shaking; I don't think I even breathed.  
  
I grabbed the knob, the brass cold under my fingers.  
  
…What was I going to find on the other side…  
  
I swung open the door, in one quick motion shoving the barrel of the gun against the person's forehead.  
  
"FUCK!"  
  
I blinked.  
  
Well…shit.  
  
Cassie glared at me, her hands up, blonde hair askew.  
  
"You know I can bend that gun in two." She growled, "I can do the same for you too."  
  
I didn't smile. I looked up and down the hall, than dragged her inside my apartment.  
  
She glared at me, "Hostile much?"  
  
I didn't answer, concentrating only pushing the deadbolts and locking the locks.  
  
She found her way to the couch, sitting uncomfortably on the leather cushions.  
  
"Tim-"   
  
I put my hand up, stopping her, "How did you know where I live?"  
  
She rolled her eyes, "Two weeks ago, when I left your apartment."  
  
Oh. Yeah.  
  
She picked up a piece of paper from the coffee table.  
  
"What's this-"  
  
I snatched it from her hand, gathering the rest of the papers, "Nothing, just," I shoved the file into my desk, "Nothing."  
  
I made my way to the kitchen, calling out behind me, "Want something to drink?"  
  
"Coffee please." She walked around my apartment, picking up pictures, checking out books, "Tim-"  
  
"Sugar?"  
  
"No thanks."  
  
I grabbed the cups from the cupboard, "Cream?"  
  
"No, I like my coffee black."  
  
"Nice…"  
  
"What are you here for?" I called out from the kitchen, checking to see if the water was warm enough. Managing to burn myself, I found out it was.  
  
"You left something at my house."  
  
"What?" I had my wallet with me when I left…didn't I?  
  
"A tape."  
  
I dropped the cup, spilling coffee all over the floor, and sending shards of glass scattering over the kitchen tiles.  
  
The sound glass breaking must have startled Cassie, because she came running into the kitchen, "Tim, what happened, are you alright."  
  
Oh god.  
  
No.  
  
This can't be happening.

***

I have to sit down. Maybe rest my head against something cold and hard. Right now, the way it's going, it may have to be a gun. Maybe mine? I have it tucked away in the bottom of the dresser in the back of my room. Bruce hates it. Babs flinches when she sees me wear it. Dick…he understands. He's carried one for years now. Never used it.

I did on my third case. I shot to kill and couldn't even do that right.

I have to sit down.

It's not Cassie I'm worried about. She's got powers comparable to Wonder woman, and they haven't changed even if she doesn't wear spandex anymore. 

It's not Cassie I'm worried about.

_You're lying._

_ _

Why am I worried? 

_You know damn well Drake_.

My eyes screw close even tighter.

_He doesn't have to hurt her to kill her._

I know I'm going to start shaking again. I can't, not in front of Cassie, not in front of her while she's holding my hand and dabbing away the blood.

_Don't dare shake Drake_.

I rhyme in my head. 

The morning's breakfast is pulling its way up my throat. 

_Don't throw up Drake._

_ _

It's tickling the back of my throat, and I briefly consider how green bile would go well with her purple sweater. I feel like I'm going to faint, fall on the broken glass of the #1 Sidekick mug that Babs had bought me years ago when I graduated from high school.

Most of all I want to scream. My jaw muscles tighten, my cheeks flush.

_Don't scream Drake._

I was Robin and I want to scream, I've faced worse, I've beaten worse…

…_You became the worst._

Cassie is looking at me with worried eyes when I finally glance up at her. She pushes back a strand of hair that fell in my eyes, "What's wrong?"

Don't shudder, resist the urge to grab her and run Drake… 

So I stand there, still, unmoving and breathing, because if I breathe I will grab Cassie and run and shake and shudder and kill…

"Rob- Tim, what is it?"

My jaw clenches, I'm breathing again, "Nothing," I pull my hand from her grasp, "Nothing at all." Bending down to scoop the glass up from between our feet, I let my head drop once more.

_Fuck._

**

Cassie went home, promising to call me tomorrow morning.

As soon as the door swung shut I ran to the phone, dialing Bab's number as quickly as I could.

"Whuh-Who-?" It was Dick, groggy and tired.

This was Barbara's private line besides her bed.

"Put on Babs."

"Hey Timbo! How's it-"

"Now."

There was a rustle and a sigh, than Babs came on, her throaty voice oozing sex, "Hello? Tim?"

"Put the works around Sandsmark and her apartment as quickly as you can."

There was another rustle as Babs probably was untangling herself from Dick, "Tim, what's wrong?" Her voice sounded panicky.

"Just get someone there."

"You're going to have to tell me why."

"I can't."

"Then you're going to have to tell me what to look out for at least."

Do you want her involved Drake? You want to get the cripple involved in this? What is wrong with you Drake? What the fuck is wrong with you?

"I-I'm sorry…"

A pause then a quick intake of breath on the other side of the line.

"Shit. Goddamnit Tim!" She was screaming into the phone now, "I'm getting you off this case now, do you hear me?"

_You're going to kill her, you know that Drake? _

_ _

"Please-"

_ _

_The tapes will come to her door, then her tape will come to yours and you will hear her scream as he dismembers, destroys and rends her body into pieces and you won't find her head…_

_ _

"You are off this case-"

_… or her arms or her legs and her torso, naked and white, will be on the steel table and Dick won't ever be able to touch her face again and kiss her…_

_ _

"Never mind."

_ _

_…and you will be responsible for Bruce's anger and Dick's hate and her death and it will be your fault because you weren't fast enough, man enough, smart enough to kill the bastard when you had the chance you sick fuck._

The phone hung limply in my fingers, and then fell to the floor, tumbling across the wood.

It rang again.

Don't pick up Drake.

And again and again and again…_and again and again and again they'll die because you didn't kill him when you have the chance you sick, sick fuck._

_ _

**


End file.
